


Better Than Your Dreams

by apollos



Series: all the times in-between [11]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blow Jobs, God Complex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Fixation, Tenderness, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollos/pseuds/apollos
Summary: They say you know you're in love when reality is finally better than your dreams. Dennis doesn't dream. He does, however, blow Mac in the alley behind Paddy's.Coda for 8x08, "Charlie Rules the World."
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Series: all the times in-between [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1478432
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





	Better Than Your Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> alternative titles for this fic: "real life has no appeal" (dennis is a marina gay) and "like a pair of parentheses" (and i'm really resisting the urge to throw a verse from the blow's "parentheses" as an epigraph.)

"If you met a clone of yourself, would you fuck it?" Dennis asks, keeping his tone neutral.

"What? No?" Mac scoffs, but he fidgets in his seat, the seatbelt sliding across the fabric of his shirt.

"Why not?"

"'Cause that would be gay. Duh."

Dennis rolls his eyes. He wants to say, _like it's not gay when you suck me off, like it's not gay when you fuck me, like it's not gay when you fuck the other dudes, too,_ but he's not in the mood to pull the string and unravel the carefully knitted constructs Mac has built up. The real world is great, and he is God, and he can keep things in check, a hand tightly wrapped around everything that needs to stay in place. And something that needs to stay in place is this, right here: Mac, disgruntled with a black eye and messy hair, spreading all over Dennis's passenger seat, and Dennis ferrying them home, the drab cityscape of Philadelphia fluttering by through the windows. This is good. This is real.

Dennis reaches over and flicks Mac on the cheek. No reason, just because he feels like it. "I would," Dennis says.

"What?"

"We need to get you some Ritalin," Dennis muses. "Or Adderall. No, Mac—I would fuck a clone of myself."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least." Mac snorts, twists around in his seat, and rubs where Dennis had flicked him. "You're so fuckin' conceited bro."

"An SAT word. I'm proud of you."

Mac laughs. "You're in a good mood," he observes, though his voice slides up just a little, making it into more of a question. That confrontation-without-confrontation thing he does.

Dennis _is_ in a good mood, and it's getting rarer and rarer these days and it's scaring him, so even though Mac has picked at the loose thread, Dennis doesn't let him see it. "I had an experience in a sensory deprivation tank," Dennis says. Knowing Mac won't know what the fuck he's talking about, he elaborates. "You dip into saltwater. It's totally black and silent. It immerses you and brings you to a state like meditation."

"That sounds awful."

"You'd probably hate it, yeah. But _I_ had a vision." Dennis smiles. "I met myself, you see. A clone. Or, I suppose another manifestation of myself, put in the physical realm, so I could learn and interact with them."

Mac's eyebrows prop up. His lips twitch like he's on the verge of laughing. "You fucked him?" he asks, voice shaky with a giggle.

"No," Dennis says. "I did blow him, though. But that's irrelevant."

"How is that irrelevant? We're talking about banging clones!"

"No, Mac, we're talking about how I had a vision. The clone blowjob is an insignificant part of this, really." Dennis reaches over to grab at Mac, holding onto his thigh just above the knee. He rolls into a red light and looks at him, holding his eye contact. "And it taught me the importance of reality."

"Reality," Mac says. His eyes remain calm and deep, making Dennis want to dive in and disrupt their surface. "Alright, bro. Yeah, we live in the real world. Fuck that shit game Dee made us play."

"That's right, baby boy." Dennis pats Mac's leg and takes his hand back. He watches as pleasure flicks across Mac's eyes, pleasure at pleasing Dennis, at worshipping him. Dennis smiles.

He leaves the topic for now, because they're back on the way to the bar to open and work. Dennis cleans the glasses and pours the drinks with a spring in his step. The others still seem a little sore form the day's events, though the little talk in the car swayed Mac and he's moving with his usual manic energy. They pass most of the shift debating whether Japan or the United States has a stronger hold on the video game industry, which is something Dennis could literally not care less about, though he does chip in that Japan controls technology generally. Dee skulks off before her shift ends, having lost the debate that Japan reigns superior and still miffed from earlier. It doesn't matter; the only person in the bar is one of their usuals, an old man with a scraggly beer who snores in a booth and jerks awake every half an hour or so to top off of another beer. They'll prod him awake when they close, send him on his way.

"We should get a Nintendo for the bar," Mac is saying, leaning on the bar top and talking to Charlie and Frank, sitting on their stools. Dennis slides over to the conversation on the other side, just so he can wrap an arm around Mac's shoulder. He watches as Charlie's eyebrows rise, just a bit, and so he ruffles Mac's hair and draws his arm back.

"Good idea, Mac," he says, though, again, he does not care at all.

"Dude, we can play Mario Kart!" Charlie's attention diverts. "I fucking love that game."

"I know you do," Mac says. "And GoldenEye and shit. It'd be great. Frank, do you know someone who can get us retro video games?"

"Yeah, probably." Frank shrugs. "Mario—isn't that just the dago plumber that runs around and shit? What's great about that? Dee's thing, now, I get, because I _ruled_."

"Dago plumber, yeah," Mac says. "But it's fun. You stomp on the little mushroom guys and you save the princess. What's there not to like?"

"Pong, now, that was a classic," Frank continues.

Dennis loses interest as Charlie and Mac try to convince Frank to buy the Nintendo. He walks behind the bar and does the few things they do before they close for the night. His watch tells him that it's a little after midnight. It's a weekday, and nobody else has come in in the last half an hour, so Dennis thinks it's about time to close. He's watching Mac leaning on the bar, the ridge of his arm, the bulge in the bicep, and he's getting a little itchy under the collar. Mac keeps talking about first-person shooters and Mario, and Charlie's agreeing with him, and Dennis feels his grip on the situation loosening.

"Time to close," Dennis announces. "Charlie, go kick out Hank."

"Got it!" Charlie slides off the stool to prod Hank, the snoring scraggly-bearded man, and get him out. Hank toddles away. Dennis thinks he lives close enough—if he has a home at all—that he doesn't need a ride home, because he's never asked for a taxi. Or maybe he told Dennis that, once.

"Well, see you jack-offs," Frank says.

"What a way to say goodbye to your son."

"Blow me." Frank waves at Dennis. He and Charlie leave through the front door, locking it, and so Mac and Dennis go through the back door.

"Hey," Dennis says, shouldering Mac into the wall. The streetlamps out on the street cast long shadows into the alley, making Mac more of an outline of himself than a bodily presence. There are no bums, and trash had come, so the dumpster smell isn't as strong as usual. Dennis yanks Mac by the front of the shirt and kisses him hard, stepping him sideways into the corner of the bar.

Mac pulls back. He smiles, his teeth stupidly white in the dark. "Hey," he says. He bumps his nose against Dennis's, which makes Dennis's stomach flip, so he kisses him again, shuts him up, does it rough. He nibbles on the tip of Mac's tongue, making him whine like a dog in the back of his throat. Dennis yanks his shirt, stretches out the neckline, and tangles his other fingers in Mac's hair, bringing him closer. Mac's tongue slides down his throat, and Dennis is thinking that his mouth feels awfully empty, that the vision was just a vision, and that he thinks he has a fine dick, a better than average dick, the dick of a God, but Mac's—

Dennis pulls back, swerving his head when Mac tries to re-instigate the kiss, tugging on Dennis's ass with his hand over his jeans. He whispers in Mac's ear, "I'm going to suck you, alright?"

"Sure," Mac says, which makes Dennis laugh a little bit.

"This is better than video games, right?" Dennis asks as he steps back. He checks the alley: still empty.

"What? Yeah." Mac shakes his head. He gets stupid like this, with his cock hard for Dennis. Dennis lets go of his shirt, his heart fluttering and cock twitching when the material gapes around Mac's neck. He drags his hand down, feeling Mac's stomach through his shirt, and then drops to his knees without any further ceremony. Mac groans like Dennis has already started, his head going back.

"I'll make you see," Dennis mutters. He spreads his own knees on the ground, gets as comfortable as he can while he unzips Mac's pants. He likes the pressure of his jeans working against his own cock while he sucks Mac off, likes letting himself feel the strain, likes letting himself leak through his briefs, into the denim.

He wishes the light allowed him to see Mac's dick up close, really, but the feel is enough. Dennis wraps his hands around the base, brings just the tip between his lips. Not particularly long, though not small, but thick and heavy. Mac has the heaviest cock Dennis has ever had, actually all that blood bundled up in the veins that bulge when he's hard like this. The years of repression, the years of longing for Dennis. Dennis runs his fingers through Mac's pubes while he keeps moving just the tip in and out, working Mac up, getting the high keening noise back in his throat.

Mac sometimes gets a little dazed, and his hands are just scrabbling at the wall, so Dennis grabs one of them and brings it to his own head. Mac gets the idea, his other hand moving. He wraps his fingers around Dennis's curl. Dennis slides his head back, leans into the tugging, and Mac thrusts down his throat.

Dennis's eyes water; it's a little sudden, a little hard, but it's what he asked for. He swallows, letting Mac push his head down until Dennis has it all in. He stills for a moment, putting his hands on Mac's hips to stop him. Dennis's eyes close. Thick and heavy on his tongue, down his throat, and Dennis feels filled, Dennis feels bodily, Dennis feels real. He smells Mac, smells he doesn't have a name for, just musk and sweat in a combination that makes him want to spread out on a bed and spend the rest of his life getting fucked. Mac's finger slide through his hair, down to cup Dennis's cheek, feel the ridge of his own cock through the thin, soft skin there. Dennis looks up at him, a dark pillar with dark eyes, and shivers down his thighs. He runs his thumbs through the juncture of Mac's thighs, then glides his hands down over to hold onto the side of Mac's thighs and brace himself.

Mac knows Dennis can take it, knows that Dennis wants it, and he thrusts hard and arrhythmically, moving with his own pleasure. Dennis keeps himself set, his mouth stretched to the point the corners of his lips start to hurt with the strain, his eyes rolling back in his head. He feels it in his stomach, when they do it like this, like Mac's fucking him all the way down his esophagus. Not much to do, Dennis just tilts his head and keeps his hands on Mac's thighs, down under the waistband of his pants and up the leg of his boxers, digging his nails into there, leaving little crescent-shaped cuts that Dennis will lick, later, maybe in the shower, down on his knees and ready to do it all over again. Time fades away, strips back. It could be seconds, it could be hours, all Dennis knows is to pulse his tongue just a little bit, suck just a little bit, open his throat and let it all come into him.

"Den," Mac says in that raspy little voice. Dennis looks up at him, and Mac's looking down at him, still cradling Dennis's cheek and curling his fingers into Dennis's hair. Dennis blinks, lets his eyelashes flutter against his cheek. He opens his mouth just a bit wider, pushes it, swallows, hollows his cheeks, hums, curls his tongue up. Anything and everything, the way Mac likes it. As for himself, his hips move in little involuntary jerks, the scrape of fabric across his cockhead an awful tease, feeling like he's swallowed lava, pooling into his guts. The eye contact does it for Mac, though, Dennis jumping in, wishing Mac's eyes were a sensory deprivation tank, wishing he could climb in and get lost, and that, maybe, reality could be what they make it, and letting himself feel that, and not boxing it away—that will come later—because it's making Dennis's nerves sizzle, it's making his own cock strain hard and wet into his jeans, and it's making Mac come, his thighs all tensed up underneath Dennis's hands as he blows, streams of salty come raining down Dennis's throat. Dennis swallows, milks Mac for it all. He likes the texture, he likes the taste, he likes that it's coming from Mac, he likes the noises Mac's making, he likes the way they both still somehow lean in, he likes that he can feel Mac against the roof of his mouth and that it brings weak, watery tears to his eyes, that stimulation feeling like a feather down the underside of his dick.

Mac knocks his knuckles against Dennis's cheek, pulling out. Dennis keeps his grip on Mac's thighs, leaning in to nuzzle into his crotch, cheek against his softening cock. Such a shame, to see it retract, and the satiation Dennis feels fades, emptiness furling outward from his gut like a blossoming flower. He finds it in himself to stop it, raising up against Mac, his hands moving up his side as he does so, their chests sliding together. Mac moves so Dennis has room, and as soon as it's close enough he cups his hand over Dennis's cock.

"Hard?" Mac asks.

It's a stupid question, so Dennis doesn't answer.

"You get hard from blowing me?" Mac continues.

He's saying it as if he did not already know this, so Dennis doesn't respond. He just rolls his face across Mac's, Mac hissing at the contact with his bruised eye, and joins their mouths again. They kiss slower, less malice, and Mac licks himself off of Dennis's teeth, moves his tongue over the parts of Dennis's mouth that are already becoming sore. He rubs Dennis through his jeans in a circular moment for a few moments before he gets the fly undone. Dennis falls to the side when Mac kisses down his neck, moving the collar of his shirt aside to suck at Dennis's shoulder while Dennis's other one hits the wall. He curves into Mac like they're a pair of parentheses. Mac lifts him gently to get an arm between Dennis and the wall, letting Dennis's head fall into the crook of his neck instead of against the brick. With his other hand he gets Dennis's pants down, gets his fingers around Dennis's cock.

Dennis laps at Mac's neck. Mac noses against Dennis's forehead, kissing him there like this is something precious, like Dennis is something precious. "So good," he whispers, more than himself than to Dennis, "this is so good." Dennis moans, thrusts into Mac's hand. He cam feel Mac grin against his head. Dennis takes Mac's skin between his teeth, not biting but to just to feel, and wraps his hand around Mac's wrist, holding him so Dennis can hump the hollow. He gets himself to where he needs to be, comes over his and Mac's fingers while running his own tongue over all the parts of his mouth that Mac has fucked into being his.

After, he's aware of how quiet is in the alleyway. He hears cars, distantly, and something that sounds like trash rolling across the ground, but more than that he hears his own heartbeat and he hears Mac's panting with the effort. He feels Mac let Dennis's cock go, as gently as if he's placing some sort of baby animal back on the ground. Mac flicks his hand, runs it against the wall of the bar, and then swipes the rest of Dennis's come on his own pants.

Dennis throws arm around Mac, and they slide into some bastardized version of a hug, Mac sheltering Dennis's body against the wall with his own. It's chilly, a breeze picking up against the sweat on Dennis's skin. The day catches up with him. The emptiness returns.

"Dennis?" Mac ventures again. "You want to go home?"

"Yeah," Dennis says. He jerks from Mac's grip and pulls his pants up, watches at Mac does the same. He adjusts his hair, knotted from Mac's fingers, and pulls his shirt back into place. Mac licks his fingers, reaches out to smooth some of Dennis's hair into place.

"Sorry," Mac says as he does it, his tongue between his lips. "Guess it doesn't matter, 'cause we're just going home, right?"

"It's important to always look good, Mac," Dennis mumbles, working himself back up to his normal voice. His throat is raw, and his words are coming out scratchy. He sounds fucked-out; he looks fucked-out; he _is_ fucked-out, and if it walks and quacks like a duck, it's a fucking duck. He could say that to Mac, could push him back into his wall and destroy the world Mac thinks he lives in. "Looking good feels good."

"Totally." Mac doesn't believe it, but neither of them are looking for a fight right now. He takes his hands from Dennis's head. "Well, good enough."

They lean on each other while they walk down the alley and to Dennis's car, quiet except for a little laugh they bounce and back and forth like they're playing Pong. Dennis leans into it, leans into Mac, leans into his body and his voice, leans as far as he can, tightens his fist, because everything is already fading, the good mood and the realization, and isn't that funny, that realization and reality have the same etymological root. He could say it to Mac, but Mac wouldn't understand. Or, rather, that Mac wouldn't _want_ to understand, and much like everything, between them, repression is a competition.


End file.
